


since this is the perfect spot to learn (oh, teach me tonight)

by remembermyfic



Series: hot for teacher [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Overstimulation, connor's still a hockey player, there is smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remembermyfic/pseuds/remembermyfic
Summary: Ryan Nugent-Hopkins is nothing Connor expected.She captivates him.Offering her game tickets seemed like the next best option.Convincing her to come out with the team feels like a coup.Watching her try and teach Klef to dance is the actual dictionary definition of torture.
Relationships: Connor McDavid/Ryan Nugent-Hopkins
Series: hot for teacher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672864
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68





	since this is the perfect spot to learn (oh, teach me tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> If you know the people, don't read the thing. This is today's PSA. 
> 
> Turns out, there is a series here. Cool beans, eh? Will it be more than Ryan and Connor gettin' down? The possibilities are endless now that we're in #quarantine2k20. 
> 
> Unfortunately for all of us, no discussion of quarantine requirements happens over the duration of this fic. The world and Connor are sad.

Ryan Nugent-Hopkins is nothing Connor expected. 

He’s been to his fair share of schools - it’s all but a prerequisite for hockey players - though not normally to kindergarten classrooms. He’s met his fair share of teachers, principals, care workers, the whole list. He’s had his fair share of starstruck educators as well. But none of them caught his eye like Miss Nuge. 

So yeah, when 5 year old Micah asked for a puck Connor used it as an excuse. And yeah, he snuck away from a PR crew to do it. But he’d endure another hour at that tiny table teaching kindergarteners how to tie their skates to see her gently guide her table of JKs through shapes and letter sounds. 

She captivates him. 

Offering her game tickets seemed like the next best option. 

Convincing her to come out with the team feels like a coup. 

Watching her try and teach Klef to dance is the actual dictionary definition of torture. 

“She’s cute,” Leon says in his ear, loud enough to be heard over the pounding bass. “A little more wholesome than I expected.”

“She’s out there dancing, isn’t she?” And the way she’s moving her hips is not wholesome at all. Could not come close. She reads books like  _ The Kissing Hand _ for fuck’s sake, and here she is, letting Klef scoot right up behind her and twisting her hips in a way no kindergarten teacher should be allowed to twist their hips. 

“Go get her to teach you.” 

Connor groans and drops his head into his hands. “She’s going to kill me.” 

Leon claps his shoulder. “She’s going to kill Klef first unless you go over there.” 

He looks up and her smile is bright and Klef is smiling back and Connor hates himself when he shoves himself out of his seat. He knows Leon is laughing at him. So is Klef if the look on his face is any indication. 

“There you are! I thought I was going to have to tell my class you were a party pooper.” 

Connor catches the hand she swings out at him to reel her in. It’s a thrill when she comes easily. “I can’t dance.” 

“Sure you can,” Ryan argues and lets him pull her right against his body. It’s not better or easier with those hips twisting into his. It is so, so, so much worse, and infinitely better. His hands fall to her hips and it takes everything in him not to lean in. It is easy to follow her, to look at the flush creeping up her cheeks in the flashes from the lights. 

“I can’t dance,” she says, obviously mocking, her smile sly and so far from the sweetness of her in the classroom. “Sure, superstar, whatever you need to tell yourself.” 

Connor slides his hand to her lower back, slips his thigh between hers. “Like this?” 

Ryan laughs and Connor slides his hand up her back, feels the softness of her sweater and the way she trembles. He finds himself humming a little, his confidence growing as he moves with her and feels her hands flutter over his arms and shoulders, brushing against the back of his neck. They settle there as she looks at him, an inch or two shorter but all the confidence in the world. Connor is caught. He leans in, buoyed when she tilts her head. It’s not perfect, they both need to adjust, but Connor’s addicted from the first taste. He feels the sound she makes when he pulls her closer, presses her harder against his body and his thigh in particular. Her pelvis hitches against his thigh and it’s confirmation. 

He breaks the kiss and gets the added pleasure of watching her follow him. He wants to see the colour in her face; the desire rises up so quickly he almost stumbles with it. He almost drags her outside. Instead, he swallows and grips her hips, watching her eyes open and meet his.

He is so fucked. 

Her gaze is dazed and heated as she lets him pull her close. “Wow,” he just barely hears her say. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

Ryan laughs, slides her hand to the back of his neck and presses just a little, almost testing. Connor leans in, takes the way she tilts her head as an invitation. He teases this time, just brushes his lips over hers. She laughs again when he lets her go. “Okay, this is real.” 

“Of course it is,” he says, unaware he’s frowning until she reaches out and smooths a thumb over the downturn of his mouth. “We shouldn’t do this here,” he murmurs and turns his head to kiss her thumb. “Too many people.” 

She jolts like she’s forgotten. A wariness slides into the edges of her eyes and Connor feels his heart fall to the floor. 

“Come home with me.” 

“I have school tomorrow-” 

Connor wraps his hand around her wrist, keeps it loose enough to pull away without a fuss or fanfare. “You can go from my place.” 

Ryan laughs a little, but it isn’t necessarily amused. There’s something else there that makes Connor feel like she’s slipping through his fingers. “There’s a whole crowd of people here. You’ll find someone.” 

“I want you,” he says immediately. 

“You don’t.” 

“Of course I do,” he replies. “I came back to the school. I wanted you at the game. I invited you out.” 

“And it’s been amazing and wonderful-” 

He takes a risk when he slides his hand over her back, nudging her closer again. She comes without resistance. “Come home with me,” he says. “I want you.” 

The indecision stays in her face and Connor can’t help the way he holds his breath. “Connor.”

He leans in, presses his mouth gently to her cheek. She trembles and releases a breath that shakes. He kisses a little closer to her mouth and feels her hand clench in his tshirt. He trembles now, tucks his hand into the curve of her spine. She sighs and tilts her head, perfect for his kiss. 

So Connor obliges. 

This kiss is sweeter, slower. He forces himself to take his time, to coax. 

“It’s such a bad idea.” 

It’s not, it’s the best fucking idea he’s ever had. Agreeing to go into her classroom was a stroke of utter genius. “It’s the best idea I’ve ever had.” 

He watches the decision in her face, watches her argue with herself. Then, there’s a deep breath before a smile takes over her face. Finally. “Let’s get out of here.” 

He all but drags her off the dance floor, revels in the laughter he hears as he does so. She can laugh at him all she wants because it means she’s here with him, that she’s having fun. His teammates are also laughing. Connor doesn’t care about them either. They aren’t the ones that get to help Ryan into her coat. They aren’t the ones that get to take her outside and get entirely distracted pushing her gently up against the wall. They aren’t the ones who get to see her eyes shine, or feel her hands slip into his jacket. 

Kissing her here is the easiest thing he’s ever done. Falling into her is the easiest thing he's ever done. Her hands clench in his shirt again. He wants to feel them against his skin. 

“Hold on,” he murmurs into her cheek and digs into his pocket. 

Ryan makes a noise and turns his face to kiss him again. He’s weak against the desperation in her mouth, even as he tries to gentle it. 

“An Uber, Ry,” he manages, low in her ear. “Let me call an Uber.” 

“Oh my god, you didn’t-”

“You are  _ distracting _ .” He kisses her again, hard this time, then rips himself away to order a car. She’s laughing behind him but Connor will take it. He’ll take the way her eyes sparkle when he looks up at her, especially after her reluctance. He wants her to want to be here, more than anything. “Five minutes.” 

“Just enough time then.” 

It’s not. It’s not even close to enough time for what he wants to do to her. He’s not sure he’ll ever have enough time with her, even as he lets her reel him in, tucks himself right up against her. “For this?” 

She hums. “You’re warm.” 

“Cold?” he asks, and curls a little tighter around her and throws up his hood. He feels her mouth against his neck and shivers. It’s not from the cold. They both know it. He knows Ryan knows it because he can feel her smirk against his skin. “Tease.” 

Her eyes flare when he pulls back. “Oh, Connor. I wholly intend on following through.” 

He groans, pressing forward despite himself. She can feel where he’s hard and he knows it from the way her breath catches. The honk of a car horn startles him and he prays to the hockey gods that the Uber driver who asks for his name isn’t an Oilers fan. 

The Uber driver who takes them on the longest ride of Connor’s life. 

The only contact he allows himself is the brush of his pinky against hers in the backseat as she politely chats to the Uber driver about the weather and her class, completely at ease and confident where he feels like his entire insides are about to explode. His abrupt thank you when they pull up in front of his condo has her tugging on his hand and raising an eyebrow. 

“I want you to myself,” he says, after the Uber driver has pulled away from the curb. 

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to share?” 

There’s a split second where they both take that in and Connor honestly isn’t sure what to do with himself. “I want a chance to play with you first.” 

The sound she makes is so satisfying, needy and incredulous and turned on in equal measure. He feels a little like it’s revenge, a little of the raw need he’s feeling pulsing through his system. He cages her against the wall of the elevator when it arrives, pushes in as close as he can. It’s reckless, and he’s not sure he cares as he leans in and takes her mouth. Some things are more important, like the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her beneath his hand. 

He doesn’t jump when the elevator dings, but does let himself make a quiet noise of discontent. She laughs at him, a quiet soft thing that turns into a yelp when he gets her by the wrist and yanks her outside. Her laugh is louder as she stumbles a little behind him, her strides just short enough that she has to run a little. Connor hadn’t accounted for keys, and Ryan takes advantage, pressing up against his back so he can feel her breath on his neck. It takes him a few tries to open the door, which is a little embarrassing, but a blink to have her pressed against it as they slam into the condo. 

He wastes no time. 

Her coat is shoved down her shoulders half a second later, and he grunts, impatient, when she doesn’t help it to the floor. He whips her shirt over her head a moment later and freezes, dead in his tracks, her shirt hanging from his hand. Her bra should be illegal. There’s nothing simple or utilitarian about it and the way it curves around her breasts, the slightest hint of lace along the edges, makes him swallow to wet his dry throat. He doesn’t even realize he’s dropped her shirt until his fingers are ghosting over her skin. The shiver he gets out of her is gratifying. 

“It’s just a bra.” 

He barks out a laugh. “Miss Nugent-Hopkins, there is nothing ‘just’ about you.” 

Her flush turns dark and Connor can’t help the way he wants to lean into it, to feel it against his nose as he nuzzles her cheek, as he trails his mouth down over her jaw. Her back arches as he trails his kisses down over her collarbone, over where her breasts swell into the cups of her bra. “You don’t have to flatter me.” 

“Flattery?” he says, as he slides his hands around her back. He growls when it’s all smooth fabric and tries not to feel ridiculous when she laughs at him. 

“Front clasp,” she says, and makes it hot as hell when she pushes her shoulders back. There is a tiny clasp there, not as convenient to flick open, but not complicated either. It also gives him quick access as the cups fall away and bare her to his eyes, to his hands, and most importantly, to his mouth. He moans as he leans in to lick at her nipple, lets his eyes flutter closed when she gasps and immediately tangles her fingers in his hair. He releases her breast when her nipple hardens under his tongue and watches his thumb play over it. 

When he finally looks at her he knows the heat of this is all over his face. This is game seven that he knows they’re going to win. He knows he can take her apart and he can’t wait. “It’s not flattery.” 

“What?” 

He helps her slide her bra from her shoulders if only so he can feel the warmth of her skin, trail his fingers up her spine and actually watch for the end of the flush that has turned her skin a beautiful shade of pink. 

“The things you can do with your body,” he says, and presses against her in exactly the right way to feel her move against him, sinuous and wanting. “Like that,” he goes on, breathless now, because it’s an echo of what he wants, her moving like that entirely naked, hot and wet around him. “No one would know you teach kindergarten.” 

She laughs, real and not even close to breathless. “Just because I teach kindergarten doesn’t mean I’m a prude.” She slides her hands beneath his shirt as she says it, inches it up his chest. “Why are you still dressed?” 

He hums as she plucks at the buttons, and is wholly gratified by the noise she makes when she finds his t-shirt underneath. He focuses on her jeans, doesn’t make it fancy as he pops the button open and handles her fly. “You tell me. I can’t do all the work.” 

She shoves his shirt from his shoulders and tears the t-shirt over his head with a desperation that makes Connor’s blood hum. When he leans in this time he can feel her bare breasts against his chest, the heat of her skin as she wraps her arms around him. He takes her mouth, deep and dirty and as thorough as he can make it, feeling the way she starts to cling to him, the way her leg tries to come up around his hip. He growls when she gets caught in her jeans and she makes a similar noise of distress. 

“Okay okay.” She pushes him away, which is cruel on three different levels, minimum, and further cruel when she looks at him with a coy smile dancing around her lips. “Get naked, Captain.” 

Fuck. 

He cannot be held responsible for the way he ignores her to push her back into the wall, to get his mouth on hers. His hands are greedy, pressing and stroking and slipping under her panties, absolutely uncaring as to what they look like. He’s more focused on where she’s slick and sticky under his fingertips, delving into that heat. Her breath catches in her throat, audible as she stiffens for a second. It doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He makes quick work of finding her clit, pressing in and circling until she’s gasping. 

“Right here.” 

She’s in no space to argue as he drives her up and up and up and over, crashing into her orgasm with a gratifying cry. He’s dropped to his knees a moment later, leaving her with her chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. 

Connor intends to make sure she doesn’t. 

He tosses her shoes and socks aside so he can yank at her jeans again. He reaches for her underwear when her jeans are discarded aside and throws them away, focused and determined for what comes next. And that is lifting her leg over his shoulder, opening her up so he can see the way she’s slick at the tops of her thighs. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she says, and he knows it’s the moment she’s realized what’s happening, what he intends to do next. She slides her hands into his hair for the millionth time and Connor dives in. Ryan cries out at the first brush of his tongue, oversensitive but willing, if the way she tries to direct him is any indication. 

“There,” she gasps. “Connor, your fingers-”

And how is he supposed to resist? How is he supposed to keep himself from slipping his fingers under his chin, sliding one, then two inside when he feels how easily she gives. She moans when he does and cries out when he gets the angle right, pairs it with his mouth. 

“Like that,” she gasps. “Connor right there, fuck.” 

She comes again, her back arching with the force of it and Connor can’t believe he gets this. He cannot believe she’s here. 

“Ryan.” 

She’s not entirely recovered when he surges up to kiss her. It’s wet and messy and uncoordinated because she’s trying to breathe and he’s trying to get closer. 

“Ryan, up.” 

It’s literally the worst idea. He could drop her. He could fall. He could break someone and have to explain to the locker room he broke himself having the hottest sex of his life and wouldn’t that mean a barrage of chirps and a lot of embarrassment. He does not care. He gets his hands under her thighs, tries to get her coordinated enough so he can lift her and head through to the master bedroom. 

She sighs when he drops her on the bed, and he’s treated to the view of her languishing in the unmade sheets, totally naked. “Not a bed maker?” 

“I’m just going to get back into it,” he replies, even as he heads around the bed to pull a condom out of the drawer of his bedside table. “Slide up to the pillows.” 

“Oh my god, your pillows are clouds.”

“I can give you the brand,” he says, but he’s not really paying attention. He’s busy crawling over her, spreading her thighs with his knees. She hums a little much more coherent now as he leans down to press his mouth to her cheek, then over to her mouth. 

“I’m not on an NHL salary,” she retorts, even as she wraps her arms around his neck. God, he wants her so much, wants this every day. He wants to buy her pillows and jewelry and hear about painting shenanigans. 

But first. 

“Like this?” 

It’s gratifying to take in the confusion on her face before he slides his cock between her thighs. “Oh,” she breathes and bites her lip. 

“Okay?” 

“Yes. Connor,” she kisses him. “Yes. I want you inside me.” 

She will kill him. 

“Not like this.” 

He rolls when she pushes against his chest, then groans as she straddles him, hums as she locates the condom. It’s torture to let her put it on, both visually and to feel it. She strokes him a few times too, like she knows. She does; Connor can tell from the coy look she sends him. 

And then he isn’t thinking of much at all because she’s lining him up and sliding down. She makes the hottest punched out noise when she bottoms out - it takes her a few torturous tries - pressing both of her palms against his chest. Her hair falls over her shoulders and Connor can’t help sliding his hands from her thighs to her ribs. 

“Ryan,” he says, and cannot believe that’s his voice. She’ll kill him. “Ryan you gotta move.” 

The sound that comes out of her is a little hysterical and her eyes are more than a little wild. “God, I can’t.” 

“You have to.” 

“Connor.” 

He’s never been patient. He’s never been good at waiting, especially with things he wanted. On the ice, he is the most patient, waiting for space and a lane, but not here. Definitely not here, not when he knows what she looks like when she comes and when he is surrounded by her. 

He bends his knees, steadies her the best he can, and pulls out. She whimpers, her fingers curling, and makes a tiny desperate noise when he thrusts back in. Connor’s addicted. He does it again, and again, calling on strength and conditioning that should be half dead because he played a game for fuck’s sake, but Ryan doesn’t care. Well, he doesn’t care, because Ryan is here, crying out with every thrust, meeting him with a dirty twist that has him flying so, so close to the edge. 

“Ryan, I-”

“Yes. Connor, please.” 

He slides his hands up her back and presses on her shoulder blades until she folds toward him, until he has all the space to thrust harder, faster, until he comes, groaning in her ear. She settles right against him, boneless. 

“Are you-” His hand slides over her ass, where he’s still inside her. 

“I’m good,” she sighs and sounds incredibly satisfied. “God bless whoever taught you to have sex.” 

He snorts, can’t help himself because well. He was a hockey player in the O, and likes to think he’s generally a good human. It’s probably not the longest list, but he’s not naive enough to call it the shortest either. 

She rolls off of him, and it takes too much effort to get up and tie off the condom. “Hey, you want a cloth?” 

She holds a hand out to him and he comes so easily, a moth to her flame. He hates himself for thinking it, even as he lets her tug him down for a kiss. “In a second. You know how to give a girl a workout.” 

He uses the bathroom, catches her at the door when she goes to do the same. “You’ll stay, right?” 

There’s a moment, like she’s considering. “Yeah. If that’s okay?” 

He probably sounds desperate when he says, “Please.” 

“Okay.” 

He’s anxious waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, and only relaxes when she climbs back into bed and lets him tug her against him, arranging her to his liking. 

“Demanding,” she laughs, but settles. “I’ll have to get up super early.” 

“Worth it.” 

And that’s the too-real truth. 

It’s still dark when Connor wakes up to cold sheets and what he’s pretty sure is the sound of his shower. It’s an impulse to smile, and another one to turn that smile into his pillow. 

And then he checks the clock. 

He groans and pulls himself from bed. He doesn’t have fucking practice until 10. It is too. Fucking. Early. 

“Ryan,” he calls into the bathroom - she hasn’t locked the door and Connor is going to not think about it, thanks. Their time feels limited as it is, he isn’t going to inspect why his heart wants to feel so domestic about this whole thing. 

Ryan’s hair is hanging in wet tendrils over her shoulder when she pokes her head out of the shower door. “Sorry I didn’t ask.” 

“To use the shower?” 

She shrugs and it feels awkward. They’ve had these moments all night, like she doesn’t feel like this is where she’s supposed to be. Connor doesn’t want her anywhere else. “I have to go in.” 

She has to go home first, he knows. She’d said something about it when he’d rolled over her a few hours ago, intent on kissing every inch of her. There’s a hickey on her hip, and he’s pretty confident it’s some of his best work. “How much time do you have?” 

“About half an hour.” 

His heart clenches. “I’ll make breakfast.” 

“Make breakfast?” She sounds wary enough that he sighs and resigns himself to the fact that everyone knows he cannot cook. 

“Toast. I can do toast.” 

She laughs and it’s soft and warm and Connor is only fucking human. It takes less than five strides to get to her and he’s got his mouth on hers. It’s demanding and he knows it, maybe clings a little because he can’t help the feeling that this is slipping away from him. It’s not quite the light of day, but it is morning, where she’ll go back to her reality and he’ll go back to his and he doesn’t want his reality to be one that doesn’t have Ryan in his space as much as possible. 

Hyper-responsible Ryan slows the kiss, gentles it until it comes to a natural end. “Make me coffee, captain. That’ll tide me over.” 

“After a shower.”

“No,” she says, but she’s laughing as she presses her hand to his chest. “If you come in here, I’ll be late. I can’t be late or under-caffeinated. Connor.” 

“You’re naked and wet, it’s not my fault.” 

The breath she releases is gratifyingly shaky. “Coffee. Please.” 

He kisses her again, slowly, because he can, because she’s letting him. “Fine. Coffee. But you owe me a shower.”

He doesn’t like the way she just smiles. 

Ryan feels flayed as she sits at her desk trying with all of her might to put last night out of her mind. A solid, sizzling night with Connor McDavid - who is maybe useless at many things, but she is grateful for the woman who taught him everything he knows - is one for the memory books, but that was last night, this is this morning, and she has kids to prep for. 

“Morning!”

Jordan is too flipping chipper. Okay, Ryan is too flipping tired. And good sore. And starving. And out of it enough that she almost jumps six feet in the air when Jordan drops a Timmies bag on her desk. 

“You’re a lifesaver.” 

Jordan makes a noise that has Ryan’s head shooting up. “It’s not from me.” Then, when Ryan just stares at her. “There’s a note.” 

But Ryan already knows what this is. She already knows who this is from. 

_ Sorry about breakfast. I’ll practice for next time. _

Ryan’s breath shakes when she releases it, as she takes in the number scrawled at the bottom. When she looks up at Jordan, Jordan looks gleeful. 

“What did you do last night?” 

“Went out with the Oilers,” Ryan says, murmurs really because she is so bloody distracted. He bought her breakfast. “He had to go out for this. Then come drop it off. Skip wouldn’t let you leave a note. With a phone number.”

“He didn’t come to the classroom?” 

Ryan pictures it, having him standing there at the door again, rumpled and soft and tired because he is a hockey player that doesn’t have to get up before the sun to make it into work. 

“Oh.” And Jordan sounds taken aback, like there’s too much on Ryan’s face. There probably is. Or at least there is to Jordan. There are perks and downsides to having her best friend beside her every day. “Ry.” 

She takes a deep breath and sets the note aside. Every movement she makes digging into the bag is deliberate, controlled. 

“Ryan.” There isn’t sympathy in Jordan’s face. There is hard determination. “You actually like him.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Hey.” Jordan has a stubborn set to her chin when Ryan looks up, half prepared for a rant on how hockey players are the worst kind of stunted children. Jordan’s gone on that rant before. Ryan hasn’t had the courage to ask why. “Call him.” 

“Hockey players are-” 

“Ryan.” And Jordan’s soft again, her friend who wants the best for her and lets Ryan decide what that means. “You want to call him. Call him. Or text him. Say thank you.” 

“He’s Connor McDavid.” 

“Uh huh,” Jordan agrees and there’s steel in her spine again. “And you’re Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, toddler wrangler extraordinaire.” 

“Technically they’re not-” 

“I’m going to go get them,” Jordan interrupts. “You’re going to text him and shove half that breakfast sandwich in your mouth before the kids descend upon us and take up all of our attention.” A smirk blossoms over her face. “Well. All of my attention. I have a feeling you might be a little distracted today.” 

She has to do shape assessments today, and the kids have music, not gym, which means they’re staying in the classroom during her prep, and they have to decide what to turn the drama centre into for next month and... Ryan knows for an undisputed fact she’s going to have to rearrange her priorities for the day. 

In the meantime though, she pulls out her phone. 

_ Thanks for breakfast,  _ she sends with a little happy face. 

It’s hours later, her lunch break, when she checks her phone again to find his response. 

_ Next time, we’ll do it in person _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> Please know in my home town JK is junior kindergarten (first year of school, you're usually 3-5 depending on your birthday) and SK is senior kindergarten (4-6 depending on your birthday). 
> 
> Title is Amy Winehouse, Teach Me Tonight


End file.
